"He's nuts," said Lieberman.
"Unorthodox," Bess said, handing her husband the rabbi's check.
"Reform," Lieberman amended, looking at the check. "And he has the handwriting of an ax murderer."
They were moving back toward the kitchen now, where Bess would feed him and grill him about his visit to Dr. Berry.
"Handwriting analysis is not your specialty," Bess said, taking his hand.
"It doesn't take an expert to see frenzy, the zeal of a true believer," Lieberman said.
"We have a nice house," Bess said, moving to the kitchen table.
"Then we should stay in it," Lieberman said, sitting.
The table was already set for one.
"We agreed to think about selling," Bess said. "And fate brought us Rabbi Nathanson. The house is too big for two."
"Lisa…" he tried, but she was ready.
"Will be moving out soon and we'll have the heat, air-conditioning, repairs, cleaning…"
"We'll think about it. Don't cash the check. Give Denenberg a call and ask him what he makes of it. What tune do you have to leave?"
"Leave?" she said.
'Table set for one. You're wearing a suit with pearls and perfume at eight o'clock. The great detective put the clues together. Building committee?" Lieberman asked.
"Fund-raising committee," Bess answered. "You'll have some time alone, to take it easy."
She came around the table and kissed him. She tasted sweet and Lieberman wondered if they had time to…
"Al and Sophie Bloombach are picking me up in-," she said with a smile, knowing what was on his mind, "-about ten minutes."
Lieberman sighed.
"You'll have to be satisfied with a thin slice of brisket, potatoes, and salad till I get back, if you're still feeling frisky and awake."
"No brisket," Lieberman said as his wife moved to the oven. The smell from the oven was irresistible. "After tonight."
Bess turned to nun.
"What did the doctor tell your Abe tore a piece of challah from the half loaf on the table in front of him.
"His name is Berry, Jacob Berry, Jewish. Just came to the city from Indiana or Michigan. He's in his mid-thirties, divorced, loves baseball, has no sense of humor, and is easy to push around. Perfect for Lisa, I thought we might invite him-"
"Abe," Bess said patiently, hands on her hips.
"High cholesterol, liver enzymes still high but manageable, migraines under control, back holding up, arthritis as well as can be expected. End of report. Nothing new."
"We have to watch your food, Abe. You promised me you'd live to be a hundred and nine."
"My love, if I am going to make it to one hundred and nine, the Lord will have to be very generous and he will need massive sacrifice from me. No meats, no milk products, watch the fat and cholesterol, lots of vegetables and fruits… in short, a potentially long life of extreme deprivation."
"We'll find ways to make it taste good and good for you," she said. "Brisket is made. Indulge yourself, Abraham. One piece."
"I am persuaded," he said, and she brought the brisket to the table.
Bill Hanrahan did not want to go home, did not want to return to the house haunted now by the memory of his wife, Maureen, and children, in addition to Frankie Kraylaw, whom he had shot and killed just inside the front door. No one and nothing waited for him but a layer of distorted dreams covered by a layer of sour memories.
Hanrahan ate his sweet-and-sour pork. He had not quite mastered chopsticks, but he was reasonably comfortable with them. There were two other customers in the Black Moon Restaurant, an older couple probably from one of the high-rises across Sheridan Road. The old couple had paid and were waiting for Iris Chen to bring their change.
Through the restaurant window across the street, Hanrahan could see the entrance to one of the high-rises, the one in which a prostitute named Estralda Valdez had been murdered because William Michael Hanrahan was drunk while on duty. He had met Iris while using the Black Moon as a vantage point for watching the entrance to the high-rise. He was drunk when he met Iris, but she still agreed to go out with him. And their relationship had meandered now for over a year.
Iris gave the old couple their change and moved over to take a seat across from Hanrahan.
She was, he thought, lovely. He knew she was older than she looked, that she was older than he, but she looked young and solid and good, and being with her made him feel calm.
"We were talking about Laio Woo," Hanrahan said, picking up a small, perfect square of pork.
"I remember," said Iris. She was dressed in a blue silk dress that was decidedly Oriental, the uniform of the Black Moon. "He does know my family. He… my father borrowed money from him to open this restaurant. Mr. Woo has demanded nothing for this but prompt and reasonable payment of the very low-interest loan."
"He never made any passes at you, nothing like that?"
"No," Ms said with a smile. "Mr. Woo is a very old man."
"Old men are not dead men," Hanrahan said, making headway on his rice.
"I have seen Mr. Woo maybe six, seven times," she said. "He has always been polite and distant. If Mr. Woo wanted women, he could have as many pretty young girls as he wants."
"Don't underestimate yourself," Hanrahan said, reaching over to take her hand.
It was smooth, delicate.
"Mr. Woo comes from a poor family in China," Iris said, looking down at the white tablecloth. "My father believes that he wants simply to be respected, acknowledged as the leader of the Chinese community. My father believes that Mr. Woo thrives on adulation and longs for respect. My father believes that Mr. Woo will never forget what he was as a child and fears to be as an adult. My father says Mr. Woo can be very dangerous."
"When are you going to marry me, Iris?"
"When would you like?"
"End of the month," he said.
Iris pulled her hand out of his and sat back.
"Because Mr. Woo has said you should stop seeing me, you suddenly want to marry?"
The kitchen door opened and Iris's frail father stood in the doorway in his apron.
"Not to spite Woo," Hanrahan said, though he knew there was a bit of that in his decision too. "I've had enough of being alone and I'm more at peace with myself when I'm with you than I've ever been in my life."
Iris's father didn't move. Though Hanrahan had lowered his voice, he was sure the old man could hear him.
"I think my father agrees with Mr. Woo," Iris said. "I think my father asked Mr. Woo to talk to you."
Hanrahan looked at the somber old man in the doorway.
"Don't be angry with my father," she said, touching Hanrahan's hand.
"I'm not," said Hanrahan. 'Td like to be angry at somebody, but I'm not. I'm clearly not Chinese. I'm a cop with a drinking problem and I keep strange hours, mope around, and disappear for days. He and Mr. Woo make a lot of sense. Will you marry me? I can quit and we can pack up and be out of Chicago in two weeks."
Mr. Chen turned and went silently back into the Black Moon kitchen.
"And we escape," she said, stroking the back of his hand.
"Something like that," he agreed.
"I will think about it," she said.
"I'd like to talk to your father," he said.
"Not a good time, William," she said, sliding out of the booth and glancing toward the kitchen.
He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table but Iris reached over, picked it up, and handed it back to him.
"I'd rather pay," he said.
"Not in my house," she said, leaning over to kiss him.
The position was awkward as he sat but she did it gracefully.
"Can we go somewhere?" he said. "Maybe back to my house? We've got a lot to talk about."
"Not tonight," she said, touching his cheek. "I must be with my father."
"I understand," said Hanrahan. "Or at least I accept that I don't understand."